


have not seen the lights for days

by finaljoy



Series: i have lost people and found them again [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Family Issues, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Past Child Abuse, Stand Alone, claire is an understanding but a no nonsense person, matt dealing with his issues, stick is a monster oh my gosh, the legal stuff is probs inaccurate whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8516362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finaljoy/pseuds/finaljoy
Summary: Matt just wants to make things right. He wants to win a case and save a girl from her catastrophe of a home life, he wants to make things work with Claire, and he wants to make Foggy proud. And then Stick shows up, and Matt has to wonder if he's really doing good or if he's fooling himself and actually flying into the sun.





	1. chapter one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intertextuality of this story is outrageous. It's a companion piece (but works as a stand alone) to _eyes blue_ , which is already a fanfic, but the title is also from the song Icarus by the Staves about the myth of Icarus. Just outrageous.
> 
> Real talk, I was Very Stressed writing this, because it's the Matt Acknowledging the Problems Stemming From His Abuse fic I deserve. Which means I gotta delve into his abuse. Which means I gotta watch 1x07 of Daredevil. Which means I gotta quietly die because canon!Matt does not handle things at all as well as I wish he would.
> 
> Warning: discussions of child abuse and brief allusions to child prostitution.

"Y'know, gotta say, Matt, when you suggested splitting off from the herd and doing our own thing, I honestly thought you were kinda nuts," Foggy told him, stirring his cup of coffee. Matt guessed from the way his voice bounced back to him, Foggy was facing the window. Foggy often became contemplative when surveying the stunning Manhattan landscape out of their large, floor to ceiling windows.

"I know you did," Matt said, cracking a smile. "You've complained all the time and constantly threatened to become a butcher."

"Okay, _first_ off, you make me sound like a whiner, and _second_ off, I didn't _constantly_ mention becoming a butcher."

"At least once a month."

"Once every thirty days! Give me some credit. But seriously, though, man. We've become everything we wanted to be at Landman and Zach. Chrome, glass, a secretary, plush carpets, lawyers we employ, conference rooms! We did it, buddy!"

Matt gave up trying to review a court transcript and gave in to Foggy's reminiscing. "Is it because our five year anniversary's coming up?"

"Uh, _yeah,_ man! Five years of Nelson and Murdock and we're already _titans!_ " he exclaimed, turning and nearly slamming his mug on the table from delight. "Get hyped, Murdock! Five years ago we were happy to keep the lights on! But you and I, we're big thinkers, stuck our nose to that grindstone and made it big! After we had Fisk locked away, it was all smooth sailing."

Matt had to concede the point. Their rise from anonymity to premium had happened overnight. What they thought was a simple case of extortion brought to them by their soon-to-be secretary Karen Page had quickly led to the rabbit hole of a crime ring. Exposing and then prosecuting the mastermind, Wilson Fisk, had brought the attention of many firms seeking new blood to improve their standing. Only a few had offered uncompromised morals as part of the deal, and out of those only one went far enough to include total freedom of their practice. Anthony Warwick might have appeared to be a hardass, but his support had allowed Nelson and Murdock to be the newest name in a line of prestigious law firms.

The gamble of taking on a man apparently connected to the Triad, yakuza, _and_ Russian mob had resulted in everything they wanted.

"How we gonna celebrate?" Foggy asked. "Cake? Fireworks? Interpretive dance?"

"I don't even _want_ to know what you have planned for that," Matt laughed. "Anyway, cake in the break room sounds fine."

"Okay, but what about afterward?"

Matt grinned, loving the way Foggy's whole being lit up when he was excited. He sent out a warm glow that could be felt across the room. "I can do drinks, but I promised Claire I'd spend the evening with her."

"I can't impose on your special night with Super Nurse," Foggy sighed dramatically, perching on the table beside Matt. "Tell her hi, thank her for her loyal service of helping you make good choices, and tell her she _still_ needs to take me up on the group dinner thing. She can't dodge me forever."

"She's _busy_ ," Matt insisted, a smile cracking across his face. "She's not dodging you. Ask her on a _weekend_ or something."

"Eh, _weekends,_ "

"Guys?" Karen interrupted, light voice carrying through the doorway. Matt never failed to marvel at how she could make her voice sweet or stone cold, depending on the situation. For the first few months he had known her, she had fallen somewhere between the two. The persecution Fisk's people had put her through had hardened her even in her kindest moments. Now, though, her voice was all sunflowers and summer breezes.

"Yeah?"

"We just got a call from Mr. Warwick. He's recommended one of his clients to us. He says it should be a fairly easy custody case."

"Custody?" Foggy asked.

"If it's so easy, why throw it to us?" Matt asked. He could hear the shrug in Karen's voice as she stepped into the room.

"I didn't get the details, but he said he was already handling a separate case for the client."

" _Two_ court cases? At once? That's brave."

"The one he has is bigger, I think. And it's ugly, so they want to sort out as much as they can now."

"So what are we looking at?" Matt asked, leaning back in his chair. "A custody battle between parents?"

"No," Karen said. Her voice turned low and serious as she stepped deeper into the room. "The girl in question, Gracia…apparently she worked for a pimp until just recently. Her parents are totally out of the picture, but one of the prostitutes she worked with managed to get out of the business. She wants to attain legal custody."

"Holy shit," Foggy breathed. "And you said this would be _easy?"_

"Mr. Warwick said it should be. Didn't say it wouldn't be tragic, though."

"No kidding."

"When will they be coming by?" Matt asked. He barely registered how smooth his voice was, how untroubled. He didn't register much, actually. It took him a few good seconds before he realized he was clenching his hands hard enough to make them ache. He relaxed them, praying Foggy hadn't noticed.

"I didn't put them on the books. I wanted to see what you guys wanted to do first."

"Put them in as soon as possible. We can adjust for Anthony's recommendations," Matt said.

"Yeah…recommendations," Foggy echoed. Matt felt his careful appraisal as Karen left the room. Matt acted like everything was fine, though, waiting (hoping) for Foggy to regain his anniversary thread.

Matt drew in a slow breath as Foggy started talking about the kind of cake they wanted. He heard the hesitation in his friend's voice, the worry he was afraid to mention. Matt played along, knowing that the words stuck in his throat might make him sick if he actually said them out loud.

* * *

"Matt? Hello, Matthew Murdock," Claire sing-songed. She gently tapped his nose to catch his attention, making him smile.

"Hm? What were you saying? I kinda spaced."

"I was just talking about this ER patient that I'm _pretty_ sure was running a dog fighting ring. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," he said, leaning his head back into the couch cushions. He was so comfortable in that moment, with Claire's delicious fruity lotion all around him, her voice light and gauzy on his skin, and a wonderful meal in his stomach. Everything was okay.

And yet he was thinking about that little girl, Gracia, whose life had _not_ been okay for a very long time. She wasn't even sixteen, and yet she had been working for a pimp for _years._ Even _trying_ to imagine the horrors she had been through made his stomach turn (or maybe her suffering ignited the memories of his own).

Claire hummed in vague disbelief and trailed her finger up the bridge of his nose to his forehead. "Are you bummed you missed out on spending the anniversary with your office?"

"Nope," he said, taking her hand in both of his and holding it against his chest. "I spend all day with them. I only get a few hours with you. I'd _much_ rather be here."

"You're definitely smooth, Matt, I'll give you that," Claire said. She curled into his side as he toyed with her fingers, the sound of his leather couch and her soft sigh trying to lure him back to peace.

They sat in silence for a few moments, their breathing the dominating sound in the apartment.

Matt ran the pad of his finger across her palm. Sitting next to Claire sometimes made him feel like Tantalus, taunted by her body but never allowed satisfaction (and, like Tantalus, it was because he sometimes had absolutely no self-control). He was only allowed the tiniest of touches with Claire. He didn't get to take her clothes off, didn't get to run his hands across her body.

They had agreed, somewhere before they got serious and after he confessed he had an addiction, that maybe sex was something to put off until a later date. That had been new territory for him. That level of _honesty_ was new territory for him. Telling her the truth had been terrifying and humiliating, and yet Claire's genuine gratitude had made every word worth it. Worth it enough to go back farther to the reason (person) why he needed such a destructive coping mechanism.

He could tell Claire knew something was bothering him, but she didn't push. She had the incandescent gift of knowing how to wait. She didn't always; waiting until he was absolutely and completely ready to talk about something was a fool's errand, but she knew where she _had_ to. Matt didn't do well when he was pushed. Not figuratively, not literally. That was usually when he started swinging.

"Warwick handed over a case today," he began.

"Yeah? What about?"

"Custody battle. Open and shut."

"How profile is it?"

"Not very. The family, they're with Warwick on another case. He wanted this one done right, so he gave it to us."

"Are you going to give it to one of your lackey lawyers, since it's such easy work?"

"No, I—I want to do this case," he said, the words again trying to stick in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to force them out. "She—the girl the case is about—she…she's been working as a prostitute. She just got out."

"How old is she?" Claire asked, voice quiet with dread.

"Barely fifteen."

"That's awful," she breathed.

"Another prostitute escaped with her from the pimp, and she wants custody. The girl's own parents just _let_ her be taken, they didn't even _care_ what that monster did to her."

There it was. There was the repulsion and anger he'd been biting back at the office. He had let go of Claire's hand to clench his fists against his stomach, digging them in like hurting himself would make that girl's suffering better.

"Oh, _Matt_ ," Claire whispered. She turned to face him, a hand settling on his shoulders. He grit his teeth.

He _hated_ it when people got that tone of voice. It wasn't pity or anything half so condescending, though that was its own sort of awful. It was the sudden understanding of someone that had just pieced things together. It was like they blinked and realized that he was actually stained with something dark and disgusting, helpless in the face of another person's barbarity.

"What?"

He suddenly felt edgy, ready to fight that understanding in Claire's voice. He wanted to back up, keep himself from ever mentioning the subject and beginning a safer line of conversation. Telling Claire the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about what had happened to him as a kid had been a _horrible_ idea (which was why he rarely told people at all), because now she where to look for the anger he tried so hard to control.

Heat spread across his face. He was a _grown man._ This shouldn't bother him so much.

Claire sighed through her nose. She waited a moment, then carefully slipped his glasses off his nose. He swallowed and fought the urge to turn away.

"Hey, it's okay," she told him.

He grimaced, hating the ugly words he was biting back. Breathe, breathe, he just had to breathe. He could get through this. Talking about the past would get better with time—that was how trusting people worked. Better with time.

"Her parents—they're supposed to _protect_ her, and yet they don't even _care."_ He forced out a smile, because people smiled when they weren't hurt. Then it cracked, sabotaged by the flighty fears in his head. "But I keep thinking about what if they _do_ start to care the moment this goes to court? What if they show up and ask for their daughter back? What if they _get_ her? She can't go back to them, Claire! She can't go back to be hurt by them!"

He was breathing hard, body practically shaking. He pressed his lips tight together.

"Matt," Claire said in a way she had, voice both soothing and firm, "it's not going to be like that."

"You can't—"

"Neither can you. It's okay."

He swallowed and bit his lips.

"Hey, Matt, don't avoid me," she told him. He hesitated, expression contorting with his reluctance to face her.

Claire put her hands on his cheeks, her touch feather light. She turned him toward her, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "We both know you'll do all you can for her," she said. "You and Foggy, you'll help her. You'll be okay."

Matt let out a slow breath and leaned his face into her hand. He pressed a kiss into her wrist.

"I became a lawyer to keep this from happening. But it's been five years and I started to think— _hope_ —that I'd never actually have to face something like this," he mumbled into her palm. It was such a weary confession.

He didn't know if Claire understood, but she smoothed the hair from his forehead.

* * *

Gracia was a quiet little girl. Matt forgot she was fifteen for most of the meeting, because her voice was always sounded so small. It barely took a handshake to know he would personally beat back hell to make sure this girl found somewhere safe.

Warwick had passed on some files about the situation, so Foggy and Matt had at least some idea what was going on. Gracia had been living in a nightmare, there was no doubt about it. Hearing even the vague details of the living conditions and rules of her pimp had made his stomach turn. Matt's own suffering seemed laughable in comparison. That man had stolen something fundamental from Gracia, and Matt was determined to help her get it back.

And Natasha too, the woman Gracia had left with. Apparently she and Clint, Warwick's long standing client, had fallen in love and made things work. Then she had saved Gracia, Orpheus leading Eurydice from the underworld. Matt tried not to wonder what had happened _before_ she left the life. If their pimp had been willing to torture and abuse a _little girl_ as horribly as he had, what would he have done to a grown woman?

Foggy tried talking to Gracia for a few minutes, but she refused to do more than mumble. Natasha ended up filling in the gaps for her. Clint was just as supportive, but it was obvious Natasha knew this girl better than anyone.

Matt clenched his hands under the table. This was going too slow. Their only real hope was to get Natasha out of the room and make Gracia stand on her own two legs. Gracia couldn't be the hero of her own story if she was too afraid to even discuss the monsters in her life.

"Ms. Romanoff, might I have a word with you outside?" Matt asked.

Matt felt Foggy glance at him, but he kept his attention on Natasha. She hesitated for a moment, then murmured to Gracia that she would be back. Even as Matt held the door open for Natasha, his resolve tightened in his chest. As long as Clint and Natasha were good as they appeared, he would fight until he was bloody and torn to keep them with Gracia. Children _needed_ someone that loved and respected them, not just someone that would give them food and a place to sleep.

The two of them paused in the waiting area of the conference room. They were tucked away from the main hall, though Matt could hear the thrum of Karen's voice as she spoke on the phone.

Matt drew in a breath, bracing himself to ask a question. There was a sick anticipation as he opened his mouth, the breathless nausea that came before pain. No, that wouldn't work. He would be the reincarnation of Achilles, sent forth after being baptized in his own suffering to be impervious to all other hurt.

"Miss Romanoff…I didn't want to address this with Gracia in the room, but could you please tell me the full extent of Gracia's abuse while under the employ of Calvin Hughes?" The words tasted sterile on his tongue. _Full extent. Under the employ. Abuse._ He kind of liked the disconnect he felt when he actually had to deal with the case. At least this way none of Gracia's misery resonated with his own until he was somewhere private.

Natasha dragged in a breath, shocked he had been so direct. "Didn't—didn't Warwick tell you?"

"Mr. Warwick gave my partner and me a rough outline. You didn't provide him with many details, did you?"

"No, I guess not." She huffed out a sigh. There was the rustle of fabric, making him think she was holding herself tight.

"Here, why don't we sit?" he suggested. The offer was as much for her as it had been for him. Natasha sounded like she dreaded every word to come, while he…Matt was certain his knees might give way if he kept standing.

(Disconnect, apparently, only went so far.)

Natasha quietly explained Gracia's life and role in Hughes' twisted system. She spoke so simply, the harsh facts and euphemisms coming out bit by bit. He could hear the removed horror in her voice as she recounted what had happened, but she didn't seem to notice how perverse it was to never use Hughes' name, how horrible it was that dozens of women, especially a little girl, were all expected to do nothing but work and sleep and work some more.

Except for when she talked about her own behavior. Natasha's voice caught for a moment, forcing them to sit in stilted silence as she tried to work through.

"We would do anything to make the weak ones feel _less._ There was only so much happiness to go around," she whispered, sounding so _heartbroken_ for having accepted and helped such a monster.

Matt listened to the rest of her story unfold. It hurt. Despite his promises to be strong, Natasha's story hurt to listen to. But Matt accepted the aching in his chest, pulling this woman's past torment to himself like he could make it all better. His disgust over how they had been forced to survive this way was equally matched with his breathless relief that they had made it out.

His anger did snap out once, though. His mouth tightened and his hands clenched when Natasha told him that the Landlord had tried to poach Gracia into his bed. Matt's stomach turned at the thought of someone so _monstrous_ walking free. But then, Hughes _wasn't_ walking free anymore. And that wasn't Matt's case.

(Which was probably a good thing, since he would probably break all of Hughes' teeth if he was ever in the same room as him.)

"When was that?" he asked, pushing on like he was supposed to do. He let his hands relax like everything was fine, just fine.

"Forever ago. Over a year. She wasn't _really_ important to me, then or even a while after," Natasha confessed. "But she started to hang around, she became one of the few people that spoke to me. And then we stayed together."

"Do you know anything of her situation before she came to the boarding house?"

"No. Gracia never speaks about her parents."

"Alright. Thank you for your honesty." Matt stood, knowing that he was being abrupt, but also knowing that couldn't listen to any more. He busied himself with buttoning his suit jacket, listening to Natasha stand.

"Thank you for helping us," she said, almost too soft to be heard over the conference room door opening. Foggy led Clint and Gracia out, boisterously joking with the little girl. Matt couldn't make himself lie and offer Natasha a smile. Not when things were so serious.

"Of course. We'd be equally responsible if we didn't try to help."

Natasha, Clint, and Gracia left after a few handshakes and good byes. Matt quickly retired to the conference room to gather his things.

"So…how'd your talk with Natasha go?" Foggy asked. He leaned against the doorframe, the buttons of his suit jacket clicking against the metal.

"Good. And Gracia?"

"Not bad. She warmed up a little, enough for me to ask about her parents. They were _not_ stellar, to say the least."

Matt pretended he couldn't hear the taut edge in Foggy's voice, the one that said he didn't approve of something Matt had done and was trying to find the perfect way to say it.

"It's that sunshiney charm of yours, Fog," he said, choosing a joke over what he _wanted_ to say, which included a lot of swearing and maybe throwing a few things. "She barely spoke when I was there."

"Because _you,_ Mr. Grumpy Pants, are _intimidating._ Why do you think I let you make all the opening statements?"

"So you can cram a little more into your other arguments." Matt gave what could almost have been a grin as he leaned against his cane.

"Okay, that was rude. But yes, I did get Gracia to melt with copious amounts of cheap puns."

"Oh, not the animal jokes," Matt groaned.

"Fruit, actually."

Matt smiled a moment, making the expression stick until he felt it. Almost. He kept thinking about Natasha's flat recitation of the _appalling_ treatment she and Gracia had endured. Calvin Hughes was a piece of shit on his own, but Gracia's _parents?_ How could _anyone_ let a little girl make her own way on the streets? How could they _not_ care that she had been pressed into _prostitution?_

"You…wanna tell me what that was about in there?" Foggy asked.

Matt clenched his hand, making sure his other one was hiding it so Foggy couldn't see. "I could tell that Gracia was leaning on Natasha. So I split them up."

"Yeah, but throwing her in cold water might have made her clam up even _more_ ," Foggy pointed out. Matt didn't say anything. If he explained that his blunt reasoning was that everyone needed to suck it up and stand on their own, Foggy would get _that tone_ in his voice that said ' _Matt not everyone is like you—they don't always get right back up'._

"Seriously, though, you okay? You seem kinda…off." Foggy sounded timid, now, his voice getting quieter as he edged to questionable territory.

"Yeah, fine. I just…have a lot to think about. Natasha…gave me some details about their lives there."

"Yikes. Bet that was fun."

"Not really," Matt said. He couldn't make himself smile again as he squeezed out the door.


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely my favorite chapter of the story (which, granted, doesn't seem like much when you consider that it's only three chapters), because Matt is actually taking his problems head on. He doesn't fix them, that's the work of months, if not years, but he acknowledges them and damn if that doesn't feel good.
> 
> Warning: depictions of emotional abuse, references to past child abuse

Matt skimmed a file, trying to find where he'd left off reading. Custody battles were new to him, and every extra tidbit he could find was quickly consumed. Foggy insisted he didn't need to know _every little thing_ about custody for them to win the case, but Matt was _not_ leaving Gracia to chance. Thankfully, Foggy had left it at that. Matt guessed Foggy knew more than enough to understand his near obsessive handling of the case.

He grit his teeth and planted his feet firmly on the ground. If he could simply anchor himself, he would be like Antaeus and garner all the strength he needed to win.

Matt started when the door opened without a knock. Usually a closed door in the office was as good as a 'do not disturb' sign.

"Well, look who went and caught their dreams. You're a fancy lawyer after all. I'm impressed."

Matt's heart actually stopped beating for a moment.

Stick. _Stick_? There, in his _office?_ Alarms screamed through Matt as he jerked to his feet. There was _no_ reason for his foster father to have been there. _None._

"What are you doing here?" Matt hissed, voice like gravel.

Stick scoffed, sounding every bit as warm. "I came here to see you, obviously. You know I can't afford a hot shot like you."

It was a struggle for Matt not to clench his hands. Stick wouldn't be able to see it, but he'd hear it. Hell, maybe he'd even feel it. Bastard always knew when Matt acted out. It usually resulted in a sharp whap across the knuckles with his cane, if Matt was lucky (if he was unlucky, he'd catch it across the mouth).

"Stick. Why are you _here?"_

"I wanted to catch up, Matty. That too hard to understand?"

"Not here. You shouldn't _be_ here," he said, grabbing his cane and basically shoving Stick back down the hall. He grunted out a quick excuse to Karen as they passed, then pushed Stick out of their office space completely. Stick tried to stop once Matt closed the door, but Matt forced him on.

"Why the _hell_ did you come here?" Matt demanded, just barely keeping the snarl from his face. "I thought you moved to Virginia."

"I did. Then I moved again. Then I thought I'd visit," Stick said. Matt didn't know how he managed to make everything so damn condescending. Matt had no reason to know what Stick had done with his life in the last ten years. Stick had slammed the door in his face too many times to count. Matt just stopped trying after a while.

" _No,_ you don't get to do that," Matt said, grabbing Stick's shoulder and swinging him around. "You can't just _come back._ You have _no right._ "

" _You_ did," Stick pointed out. "Hell, seemed like you were whining after me every few months, begging me to come to this or that."

"I asked you to come to my _graduation,_ " Matt said coldly. "And I gave up when you threw a _bottle_ at my head."

"You could hear it coming," Stick said, an easy dismissal as always. "Half full, made tons of noise. Didn't even _touch_ you."

It had and it hadn't. Matt had heard it sloshing through the air and had ducked in time, true, but that didn't mean the sound made any sense until it shattered on the wall behind him. Glass shards had sliced his face and arm, though he'd never told Stick that.

"What do you _want,_ Stick?"

"I was in town, figured why not. Came here since I didn't think it'd be polite to barge into your home."

Matt worked his jaw at the sarcasm oozing out of Stick's words. He _hated_ losing control, hated the carelessness and lack of discipline it implied. Somehow, Stick always managed to test him more than just about any other thing on the damn planet. That was probably because he was the one that instilled the value of control in the first place.

"Anyway, wanted to say hi," Stick said. The whisper rasp of him settling into his oversized clothes accompanied the words. "Meant what I said earlier, though. You're a big lawyer now. I'm impressed. This place seems nice. See ya 'round, Matty."

And just like that, Matt felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. That was all it took. Stick had been gone for ten years, and yet what he thought _still_ mattered to Matt. He had always been able to count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Stick genuinely say he was impressed. Now he could do it on two.

Matt bit his cheek, even more pissed that Stick managed to make him feel like the asshole.

"You can come over after work," he sighed, the resignation heavy in his words. "If you still wanna talk. I get home around six."

"You sure? Not afraid I might hurt your _feelings_?"

"Dammit, I'm trying to be nice!" Matt snapped, then checked himself. "Whatever, doesn't matter, though. Do what you want."

Stick chuckled. "It always matters with you, Matty. See you at six." He tapped Matt's shins with his cane in way of goodbye, and somehow…it felt more like a pat on the shoulder than a physical assault.

Matt retreated to his office. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing before. Stick's appearance had scattered his thoughts, making it hard to concentrate on anything. Which kind of made sense. Stick appearing would have been bad enough. But actively _seeking Matt out?_

"Matt!" Karen said, voice bright with surprise. "You're back soon. Who was that?"

"Uh, no one. No one important. Just—"

"Who's not important?" Foggy asked, distracted by the conversation on his way to the breakroom.

"Oh, just this old guy that came to see Matt. It was actually kinda weird, he looked like he'd just rolled down a hill before walking in."

"Definitely not advisable in a suit," Foggy said. He sounded like he was settling in for the long haul at Karen's desk.

"He wasn't wearing a suit. Just a t-shirt and cargo pants."

"In _this_ building? I'm impressed, he's got brass."

"Mm-hm. And he was blind—"

"I'm gonna go work on Gracia's case," Matt said. It was a murmur more than anything, just a vague attempt at politeness before he hid in his office.

" _Whoa,_ hold on. Rumpled old _blind_ man coming to see Matt?" To Foggy's credit, his alarm was mostly hidden, except for his voice raising a few decibels.

"Foggy, come on. You'll disrupt the whole office," Karen reprimanded.

"Alex and Vivian are at lunch, they're fine. Plus they're barely more than _interns,_ they're not gonna give us trouble. Did _Stick_ seriously just come visit you?" he asked, swinging to face Matt, who had frozen in his doorway. He grimaced, then stuffed it back as he glanced over his shoulder so Foggy could hear.

"Uh, yeah. Really, Foggy, it's nothing big." Matt again tried to edge back toward his door.

"Who's Stick?" Karen asked.

"He's, uhm, he's kinda Matt's foster dad."

"Matt's…oh."

Matt closed his office door, not caring what it said in lieu of words. He leaned against it, his cane pressed hard against his chest. He breathed deep, savagely enjoying the discomfort of the handle digging into his sternum.

He'd told Karen that his father had died when he was young, but he'd never gotten around to explaining his escapades in the foster system. Not when Stick came attached. The only people that knew the whole story were Foggy and Claire, and that was enough to send his heart racing. Everyone told him that being honest was good, but that only felt like an enormous mistake when it meant they would side-eye him every time something like this happened.

Not that this had ever happened before. Matt had honestly thought the next time he would meet Stick, the old man would be in a coffin. He'd sort of been hoping that would be the case. Dead men couldn't box his ears because he wasn't acting just so.

* * *

Somehow, after years of mind games and lies and disappointments, Matt was still surprised when Stick didn't come to his apartment after work.

It was a good thing he didn't show, Matt told himself. He needed to focus on Gracia's case, needed to make sure _nothing_ kept that girl from happiness. His concentration had been wrecked for the rest of the day, and now that Stick had yet again let him down, he could get back to work.

Thankfully, Foggy hadn't pushed the subject of Stick. The day after his appearance, Foggy appeared in Matt's doorway.

"You wanna talk about what happened?" he asked.

Matt politely said no.

(His exact words had involved 'asshole', 'doesn't matter', and 'he's a dick', but it had been topped off with a smile because that was what he was supposed to do.)

Foggy didn't smile. Matt could feel it all the way across the room—the uncanny chill of doubt where Foggy was normally so bright.

"Matt, I didn't want to bring it up, but if any of this is bothering you because of Gracia…"

"Gracia? What's she done?" There was a laugh in his voice, which was good. Laughter was good. Laughter was more convincing than a smile.

"Matt. I know abuse cases always rub you wrong."

Matt fought to not let his lip curl. _Abuse._ He hated hearing that word on other people's tongues. It felt condemning, somehow, critical in a way he was _sure_ he never let it be. Instead, he said, "It's fine, Foggy. He's gone, alright? It'll probably be another ten years before he shows up again."

Foggy sighed, the slightest sound of unhappiness in the noise. "Well, okay, then. Just remember, my door's always open."

Matt thought it was probably open too much. His statement about people needing to deal with their own problems still stood (especially for him). But he nodded and thanked Foggy, because he genuinely appreciated the offer. Foggy, too, knew how to not push.

After that, the most serious topic Foggy raised was the new office softball team, which he was hellbent on creating. Matt was too thankful for Foggy's easy support to point out that the 'office' softball team included people from their entire floor as well as some random people Matt thought were from Foggy's hot yoga class (Marcie's crazy idea, Foggy insisted).

Plus, he had Karen to point out all the flaws for him.

Matt just had to get back to work. Stick's appearance fueled Matt's determination, if nothing else. _He_ was the reason Matt decided to turn to family law. He was the kind of person _no one_ should ever be stuck with.

And yet, impossibly, somehow, obviously, after years of mind games and lies and disappointments, Matt was _still_ surprised when Stick showed up on his front step four days later. Matt nearly choked when he opened the door to find the borderline comforting smell of worn cotton, incense, and cinnamon.

 _"Stick?"_ he gasped, earning a grunt of annoyance.

"Look, you gonna make me stand here forever?"

Matt stumbled back, allowing Stick to surge forward. He swept down the hall, head swiveling as he examined the room.

"Real leather, nice. Hell of a draft from those windows. Whaddaya need _those_ for, anyway? Nothing but a peepshow for the neighbors."

"They're why I _got_ this apartment," Matt bit out. His shock was wearing off, and he was starting to resent his offer. "There's an electric billboard across the street. Since there were no curtains for the windows…"

"You got a discount. Nice."

Matt was rusty at disentangling the real meaning from Stick's words, and he couldn't figure out if the man was being gruff or sarcastic. He stalked past Stick, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

He kept his apartment fairly clean, so Stick couldn't criticize him on that front, but what about everything else? This was Matt's _home_ , a physical stand in for his heart. Matt had already let Stick in once, and that had ended horribly. He wasn't big on second chances.

"How long you been here?"

"Couple of years."

"See you couldn't ditch Hell's Kitchen."

"It's my _home._ "

"It's a dump heap of a few street blocks. At least move to the _nice_ part of Manhattan."

"When have _you_ ever cared about what's nice or not?" Matt demanded. He couldn't help but notice the distinct difference between his expensive button down and Stick's undoubtedly ratty hodge-podge of an outfit.

"I don't," Stick admitted. "But you do."

How did he make that feel like a gut punch?

"You got a chair around here or something?" Stick asked, already tapping around with his cane.

Matt mumbled out an answer he doubted Stick heard as he loudly tapped through the living room. He beat the side of the sofa a few times more than Matt felt was necessary, then flopped into one of the armchairs.

" _Oh,_ " Stick said slowly. "Seems a girl really likes this chair. She smells pretty."

Shit. Shit shit shit _shit._ It wasn't like Stick could _do_ anything with the knowledge that Claire existed, but something in Matt's gut twisted in bitter fear over the thought of her being on Stick's radar. He didn't want _anything_ so wonderful to be touched by something so ghastly.

"What's it matter to you?" Matt asked, and somehow— _thank God—_ he didn't sound petty or hostile or afraid. He sounded hard and condemning, exactly like a prosecutor should (which was a really shitty thing, because he had become a defense attorney for a _reason_ ). "Why are you even _here,_ Stick? You haven't given half a damn since I was twelve."

"I'm sure I did."  
"Yeah? Like how you put _chili oil_ in my shoes to make sure I was aware of my surroundings?" The oil had actually burned the skin of Matt's feet, making it almost impossible to walk for a week. He'd told his teachers that he'd gotten a sunburn when they asked why he was limping.

"I _told_ you," Stick sighed, like Matt was still a petulant kid that needed things to be explained yet again. "People are gonna take advantage of a blind guy if you're not careful. And look where you are now."

 _Fighting with my foster dad about abuse,_ he thought bitterly, even as Stick said, "A fancy lawyer with a nice place and a girlfriend. Or _some_ kind of friend."

"Her name's Claire," Matt mumbled, shocked at the… _pride?_ in Stick's voice.

"Now, you wanna get me a drink or what?"

Matt sighed and grabbed a beer for Stick. He felt like a kid again, retracing his old steps from the fridge to wherever Stick was sitting. Different kitchen, different age, different sentiment (resignation, not obligation), but still the exact same.

Matt stood by the couch, glaring at darkness as he tried to think of what to say. He dug the edge of the sofa into his leg, needing a channel for the anger and confusion snarling behind his teeth. He didn't sit down. It always seemed like a better choice to stay on his feet around Stick.

They were both quiet a moment, Matt chasing thoughts around his head. Every second Stick was there was a second he chose to be with Matt, which was…amazing, really. Plus they had gone a full minute without Stick hurling an object or a harsh word at Matt, and he was morbidly interested to see how long it would last.

There had been a lot of tough times with Stick; that was all the man seemed to know. Tough love, tough skin, tough luck. The world wouldn't go easy because Matt asked it to, he had drilled that in Matt's head within weeks of Matt living with him. But there were also peaceful times, summer nights where Matt went out and gave Stick a beer on the back porch, then lingered until Stick grumbled at him to sit down. Matt could only remember a handful of sunsets, painted berry red and daffodil yellow with kisses of peach cobbler and amethyst speckled in between. But the best were always the ones Matt _couldn't_ see, where the easing summer heat felt like a mother's goodbye hug, the chirp of crickets an early lullaby, the conversation of the wind in the trees and grass and Matt's hair a promise of belonging. He had _belonged_ with Stick.

Matt had hated living upstate because he missed his dad, but those moments of peace were magic.

Matt let himself ease onto the couch. Stick stayed quiet, content to work on his beer.

"Do you really…think my apartment's nice?" Matt asked. He didn't know if he sounded like he was fishing for compliments or making small talk.

Stick scoffed, a sound that came through his nose first, then slipped past his teeth as an afterthought. "Yeah, sure, seems nice. Smells alright, sounds big enough, even with those big ass windows you don't need. Plan on giving me a tour?"

"No," Matt shot back, because that was what he was supposed to say (and he still didn't want Stick stepping all over the rest of his life).

"Good," Stick grunted.

Matt smiled, adding another tick to the things he'd done right.

"What're you working on?" Stick asked. "What kinda lawyer are you, again?"

"Family law attorney."

"So what things do you do? Custody battles or some crap?"

"We do handle custody sometimes. There's also paternity, guardianship…"

"All for hoity toity white collar types."

"Our clients are normally of a wealthier background, yes."

"Oh, cut the lawyer bullshit," Stick said, like Matt's job was _funny._ "It's all fat cats fighting with wives and mistresses, isn't it?"

"Right now we're representing a couple who wants legal guardianship over a little girl," Matt said coldly. He hoped Stick heard the pointed accusation in his voice.

"What bleeding hearts."

"She used to be a prostitute. Her parents left her for dead on the streets."

Stick at least had the decency to stay quiet. He took another sip, settling in Claire's favorite chair like he owned it. Matt chewed on his cheek, fighting the urge to fidget with the seam of his slacks. Those easy moments with Stick never did last long.

"Why did you ask, if you knew you'd disagree?" Matt asked quietly.

Stick heaved a sigh, tossed him a shrug. "You're a success story, Matty, you really are. You climbed out of the seedy neighborhood you grew up in and now you're working in chrome and glass. That's impressive. But it's looking more and more like you're flying too high."

"You're citing the myth of _Icarus_ at me?" Matt demanded, laughing to cover the anger in his chest. He had been wondering when Stick would start in with the damn perfect Greeks.

"Look, kid, I'd be wrong if I didn't try to warn you when I think you're getting too close to the sun."

" _No_ ," Matt said, shaking his head. His face was hot, though he couldn't tell if it was from anger or confusion. _Was_ he flying too high? He thought he was doing well, but his record _clearly_ showed he was not the best judge of anything. "You don't get to lecture me about how I live my life."

"Why, 'cause the messy old man that _raised_ you is embarrassing"?"

"Because you haven't _been_ here for _ten years!"_ Matt snapped. His face still flamed, because Stick had this way of saying things about Matt like they were true.

"You were doing _fine_ until recently," Stick said still, lounging in his chair. "But now your name's smeared all over the papers, you're dressing like a high roller—"

"How the hell would _you_ know what I dress like?"

"—and your clients, most of them, are scum. I know, you had that one great case where you put that one percenter Fisk in jail, and that probably makes you feel pretty good. But at the heart of it, you're not saving the world, Matty. You're getting millionaires out of paying alimony."

Matt barked out another laugh. "Yeah? And what are _you_ doing to save the world? Criticizing it into submission?"

"I raise people like you," Stick said simply. "I keep them on course."

Matt opened his mouth, fighting to get the words out, fighting not to let Stick's strange, crooked compliment stop up his throat. "I've been doing _great_ without you. But now you come back to say it's _too_ good?!"  
"Matty, no need to throw a bitch fit about this. You've been the same since you were a kid; always playing with fire. And it's my job to pull you back before you burn something down."

"How dare you," Matt snarled, shaking from anger. "I'm doing _well._ But the moment I manage to make something _without_ you, manage to establish myself in my own right, you come charging in. You should have thought about that _before_ you cut me out of your life."

"You were becoming _dependent,_ " Stick said, voice edged with annoyance. "You needed to spread your wings."

"So you're Daedelus in all of this," Matt scoffed, throwing his arms wide. "Calling me down from the sun, pulling me up from the waves."

"Basically. You're smart as hell, Matty, but also arrogant, and that's what's going to ruin you. Look around, find what's _really_ important—"

"Find what's really important, like character and the end goal. Be like the _Spartans,_ baddest of the bad asses," Matt quoted, voice mocking and harsh.

Every word tasted like poison on his tongue, but Matt would _gladly_ spit each one in the old man's face if it meant he'd be accountable for what he'd done. That didn't make him sound like Stick, it didn't, it didn't.

"Don't tell me this is what you've been _training_ me for," Matt continued, savage and fierce and too big to be hurt. Finally, finally, he was too big for Stick to hurt. Physically. "All the tests, like when I had to sleep outside, or making me walk _for a mile_ in the _country_ without any direction or even my cane? Dropping me on my _ass_ time and time again, constantly disappointing me?! _That_ , that is what you call taking care of me?"

"I never said I'd be soft."

"Then what about _human?!"_ Matt yelled.

Stick didn't say anything a moment, then he laughed. Matt _hated_ him.

"How long've you been holding all that back?"

Matt worked his jaw as Stick trundled on.

"I told you I'd train you to be a man. You had to know I wouldn't settle for _mediocrity._ I raised you to be the best. You've got the basics, Matty, you just have to follow through. You don't _need_ anything, _anyone_ else. You were always too eager to get _attached,_ and you'd use any method you could to do it. Before it was getting good grades, being funny and charming. Now you think money and connections are gonna make people like you. Is that how you got your mystery lady?"

" _Don't_ talk about Claire like that."

"Yeah, well, watch her. She might just use you for all you got and then leave once the whole blind thing gets boring."

"She's not _like_ that," he hissed. He would be damned before he let the first good, _decent_ relationship he'd had in years be slandered by a bitter old man that didn't even know what love was.

"You're never gonna know until she broadsides you. Cut her loose, Matty, cut her loose now."

" _Why?"_ Matt demanded. "So I can be like you? Alone and bitter, picking on _kids_ because that's the only way you feel powerful? Do you even have _any_ idea what you did to me?!"

Matt laughed as he asked it, because it was kind of funny. He was so light-headed he could hardly think straight, and yet his voice was steady and strong. He didn't feel strong. He felt like he might be sick. Admitting he even _had_ weaknesses to Stick felt suspiciously like laying himself on the altar of Stick's pride.

"Oh, don't tell me you had to go to _therapy_ because of me. Did you go on Oprah, tell your sob story about the poor blind boy that was picked on by the angry blind man?"

Matt clenched his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He couldn't even _begin_ to lay out all of the _damage_ Stick had done to him, the doubts and self-condemnation and horrendous, filthy coping mechanisms Matt had turned to because his _father,_ the one person in the world that was supposed to take care of him, had tossed him out like trash.

It was almost a surprise to discover that he didn't _want_ to tell Stick. Not because he was afraid or resentful, but because Stick did not have the right to know. He didn't deserve the honesty Matt had cultivated for those he loved.

"Get out of my house," Matt growled. He was glad he couldn't see. If he saw even a _trace_ of Stick's uncaring, sickening amusement, he'd go ballistic. Stick had taught him how to throw a punch when he was thirteen, and Matt would use that knowledge to blacken every inch of his foster father's skin.

"Fine," Stick sighed, finally dragging himself out of the chair. "I'm not gonna let myself drown 'cause you let your wings melt. _I_ at least learn from the past."

"Get _out!_ " Matt yelled, anger and desperation climbing up his throat. "I'm _happy_ without you, Stick. Don't you ever come back to me and tell me I'm wrong for not being miserable like you!"

"Yeah? Use your fancy lawyer degree and sue me for trying to take care of my son."

"You made it clear that was _not_ what I was, even when I was a kid."

"Even now, you're too sensitive to see things objectively," Stick sneered. Only he could sap the power from Matt kicking him out. He tugged open the door and strolled through it like he could not give a damn.

"Go to hell, Stick," Matt said, slamming the door behind him.

He stalked down the hall, his explosive anger dying out with each step. Angry as he was, resentful as he was, he couldn't help but feel that familiar, sickening sense of dread. Stick was wrong about _so_ many things, but he always seemed to be right where it counted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't often become worked up over stuff not being in canon. But I will, without exception, fight to the death over Matt needing to openly, clearly, and unabashedly have it out with his abusers.


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Matt Murdock and all of his flawed good intentions so much. It's been a delight to be able to study him as a person without the extra crazy baggage of powers and alter egos. Like with the rest of the eyes blue!verse, this story hasn't been so much about fixing problems, but recognizing them and navigating to a place where the person is able to properly take care of them and themselves. I could literally cry over Matt having a proper support system, and also being in an emotional place to take on Stick and not spiral.
> 
> Thank you everyone who has enjoyed this story with me.
> 
> Warning: discussion of and allusion to past child abuse

Matt heard the door unlock, heard Claire call out for him.

"Yeah, Claire," he mumbled, face aimed toward his lap. His head would have been between his knees if he'd had the energy. He had barely managed to leave the voicemail asking Claire to come over.

He'd tried forgetting Stick's words using meditation—his clean, healthy alternative to masturbating or hiring a hooker or some other despicable way of giving into his addiction. It sort of worked and it sort of didn't. He wasn't doing anything harmful physically, but he kept replaying the conversation in his mind, each repeated word shaking loose a little more of his confidence.

"Matt, where are—whoa. Uhm, Matt? Why are you sitting on the floor?"

"Because I couldn't make myself go to a chair," he mumbled. Claire was quiet for an eternal second, not moving from the middle of the doorway.

"So you parked it against a wall?"

"Yeah."

Claire moved closer to investigate. He could already hear her nurse voice as she evaluated him. "Matt, did something happen?"

He tipped his head up at her. He made himself smile to show this was not as bad as it looked. He didn't even know why he felt so miserable. He wasn't _bleeding_. He hadn't _lost_ anything. He _still_ had a shitty foster father and a mountain of flaws and failings. There was no point in feeling sorry for himself just because he'd had a reminder of that fact _._

"Stick came over."

" _Stick?_ As in the foster father that didn't even let you call him _'Dad'_?"

"Yeah. Him."

"Oh, Matt."

Matt loved Claire for a number of reasons. She was smart, kind, no nonsense, considerate, funny. But most of all, she _never_ let pity enter her voice when speaking to him. Normally, he hated hearing that sickening understanding in her voice, hated her _knowing_ what a raging mess he was. But in moments like this, he absolutely adored her for understanding the pain in his chest and not looking down on him for it.

He sat there, face turned up, hoping and praying for her to make it at least a little better.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No," he said, a choked laugh squeezing off the word. "Hell no, that's the last thing I _want_ to do."

"Okay. Do you need me to do anything else…?"

"No," he whispered. "Please…just stay here."

Claire waited for a moment, then knelt in front of him. He could feel her knees brushing against his ankles, tucked neatly between his splayed feet. He closed his eyes, despising the fact that even _now_ he felt aroused by the idea of her skin touching his. Matt wished he could blame Stick for that, wished he could pile on every single one of his bad decisions and make it all Stick's fault. Matt would have loved for the man to be responsible, just once, to realize just how horrible a human being he was. It would probably be enough to make Stick collapse from the weight of it. At least, it felt that heavy when all that responsibility settled around Matt's shoulders.

But he couldn't. _Stick_ hadn't caused his string of girlfriends and one night stands and sleazy bathroom encounters. That had been Matt, trying to fill an emptiness inside him with one of the surefire ways he knew how to feel good. But that emptiness _was_ Stick's fault. Or maybe Matt's. He shouldn't have become so attached to someone so cruel. Which made it Stick's fault again? No, Matt was just being a child and not taking blame when blame was due.

Claire waited as he chased himself around his head. She didn't say anything, didn't give any signs that she was annoyed at having her time wasted. She just sat there, hands on her lap.

Claire had taught him early on that there was value of talking things out. She was all about candor, required that things be discussed eventually, if not right away. It had taken a long time for Matt to understand, to feel the persistent need to tell her what happened. At first the words had stung his mouth (Spartans didn't need confidants), but then he realized that telling the truth wasn't a confession of weakness. It was a detox, a purge of the poison in his soul. That, he had realized belatedly, _had_ made him feel better. Only this time, it was in a way that lasted.

Matt breathed through his nose, fighting his hatred of letting people know just how much of a wreck he was.

"I…Stick showed up at my office a few days ago. And then today he dropped by. And…" He swallowed, grimacing like the words tasted bad. "He said I was flying too high."

"O…kay? I don't know what that means."

Matt sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He didn't even pretend to find Claire's face with his eyes when he spoke. They weren't _speaking,_ he was flinging horror stories into the ether.

"Stick loves Greek myths. He'd talk about them all the time. They're his parables. He had Odysseus and Perseus and the gods the same way other people have Jesus."

"Only…he wasn't saved by them?"

" _No,_ " Matt scoffed. "He doesn't care about damnation. He cares about _this_ life, about doing as much and being as strong as you can. He'd bitch for _hours_ on Sunday before a neighbor picked me up for church, about how I'm wasting my life worrying about something that probably doesn't exist."

Matt pursed his lips. He didn't tell her about his habit of avoiding Stick on Sundays until he got back from Mass. That was at least one good thing about Stick; he left the past in the past. Sunday afternoons were completely fine, despite the warzone of the early morning, so long as Matt didn't try spouting his knowledge on the trinity or sainthood (that too, he learned to stop doing fast).

Not telling her wasn't lying. It was saving a new bit of shame until he was stable enough to tell it.

"His favorites were the Spartans," Matt continued. His voice was flat, the words falling straight from his mouth to his lap. "They were tough, they didn't need anyone, they marched into battle without fear."

"That…makes a lot of sense, actually."

"What? How?"

"The first time I came over here, my first thought was that your apartment was Spartan."

Matt blinked, face heating up. "I don't understand."

"You had nothing," Claire said, a slight laugh in her voice. "There was a rug, a couch, a chair, the shelves over there. The place felt cold. Nice, but cold. It didn't seem like you made this place your _home."_

Matt shifted, trying to smother his words of disbelief. Stick had always said Matt strayed to the side of opulence. There was no way his genuine leather couch and silk sheets could be _Spartan._ Not when his childhood had mostly been spent on a cot, worn out wooden chairs, and cold linoleum. His apartment was practically a suite of excess, both now and then. And it had been the exact first thing Stick had picked up on when he walked through the door. If Matt's apartment was a physical stand-in for his heart, the first thing people had to see was how soft it was.

"Tell me more about what happened with you guys. When you were a kid, I mean," Claire prompted, her hand on his knee.

Matt cleared his throat, trying to think. He had told her the vague outline of his childhood, skimming over day to day experiences in favor of the major events. She knew, for example, that Stick had insisted on Matt using his nickname (earned at a bar for the cane he used), but not that he had slapped Matt the first time he'd tried to call him 'Dad'. She knew that Stick had once treated him to the rare luxury of ice cream, but not that Matt had puked it up fifteen minutes later when Stick forced him to run for half an hour, an object lesson on self-denial. She knew that Matt loved and hated the man, respected and feared him. Cuffs and comfort had blurred together, each one becoming indistinct from the next. That was how Matt had had to deal with it. Picking out details made him want to be sick.

"Well, he…didn't exactly take _care_ of me," Matt began. "He stopped trying to be an okay dad when I was young, fourteen, maybe. But we made it work. It was better when I tried to not be such a burden. Then I graduated, and…he kicked me out."

"What?"

"Once I was eighteen, he didn't let me stay. I couch surfed until I got to college."

"What did you do for breaks?" Claire asked. He could hear the anger in her voice, the disgust that Stick had abandoned him for one reason or another. But she bit it back, keeping her voice low and considerate.

"I stayed with Foggy's family."

"So you haven't seen him in years?"

"No. Not until the other day."

"But now you're doing too good for yourself, you're like that guy, the one with the wings, right? And he flew too hard and he destroyed them?"

"Icarus," he whispered, skin prickling like he could feel the feathers and wax through his shirt. "His father made him a beautiful pair of wings, but warned him not to fly too near the sun or too near the sea. But Icarus didn't listen, and he flew high enough to make the wax on his wings melt. He fell into the water."

"And that was it, the end?"

"No," Matt said, voice small. "Daedelus, his father, he flew down to save his son. But he got his wings wet, and they were too heavy to lift them back out."

"So they drowned," Claire finished, voice flat. "And Stick came here and, what, said you were going to be burned by your success and you _believed_ that?" Claire demanded, fingertips digging into his legs. "You believe that saving children from horrible situations—"

"Custody's not about _decency,_ it's about the most expensive _lawyer._ "

"—unearthing this huge scandal with Fisk through a family lawsuit—"

" _Wilson Fisk_ was basically hauled off to the DA once we found out he was heading up a graft ring—"

" _Helping_ people, Matt. You think every good thing you've done in court is some trick, all because one mean old man came in here and said so?"

"Claire, it's not that simple—"

"No, Matt! It's exactly that simple!" Claire leaned forward, the pressure of her palms disappearing from his knees as she set her hands against his face. "Matt, you _know_ you're doing good, so I don't get why you're suddenly saying you're not."

"What if I'm getting drunk off the hype? Stick was _always_ right about these things. Pretty soon I'll be chasing a paycheck, not justice."

Claire was quiet a moment, hands still holding his face. Her touch was always so gentle with him, no matter how upset she became. He could feel the tormented mix of disbelief and disappointment and hate tumbling up inside her, but she never directed it at him. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone, feather light as it went back and forth, back and forth.

"I wish you wouldn't be so afraid of trusting yourself," she whispered.

Matt worked his jaw. "My judgment hasn't always been the best."

"According to you or to Stick?"

He closed his eyes and cracked a tired smile. "Both."

"And that little girl you told me about? Gracia? What's your judgment on her? Just a paycheck?"

" _No._ "

"And why's that?"

"Because—because we need to keep kids _safe_ from shitty parents like hers."

Shitty parents like his.

"Okay. That sounds pretty convincing to me."

"But Claire—"

" _Matt,_ " she said, the words so serious and placating that he closed his mouth. "I don't think you'd be this upset if some part of you didn't think your foster dad was wrong."

Matt swallowed. He didn't have words for her.

Claire sighed and mumbled, "Come here," before folding him into her arms. He felt her pulse in her neck and closed his eyes. He clenched his teeth and forced his breath to stay even, to not let it hitch, to not give birth to the tears that were clamoring inside him. There was only her and the dark, beautiful smell of her lotion.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he whispered into her hair.

"You kept fighting, even after days like this."

He sighed out a smile. Fighting didn't really feel worth it on days like this. But the days after…they were pretty okay.

"Have you told Foggy any of this?"

"No," he mumbled. He closed his eyes, shrinking from the thought of explaining all this yet again. Foggy, while every bit as accommodating as Claire, likely wouldn't appreciate finding out that Matt had blatantly lied to his face. Again. He was supposed to have stopped that.

"You probably should," she murmured, hand stroking his hair. "He deserves to know."

"Please stay," he asked. "Stay the night. You could come to service with me tomorrow."

He knew it was edging toward that damnable line, pressing them beyond what might have been good taste. He didn't know what good taste _was_ anymore. But if she stayed, he swore to himself that he would behave. He would not touch her, would not imagine anything perverse. He would just be thankful that she had chosen to be there with him.

"Don't change the subject."

"Claire—"

"I need to hear you say it, Matt."

He sighed, then nodded. "I'll tell Foggy, first thing Monday."

"Okay, good."

He listened to the sound of her breathing, shivering slightly as it skated across his skin.

"You…never gave me an answer," he said, so terribly afraid that she would say no.

Claire let out a slow breath. "I don't know if that'll be okay for you," she said carefully.

He clenched his teeth.

"Will it?" she asked.

Matt furrowed his eyebrows, thinking hard, trying to force the knowledge of whether or not he would truly be able to behave. Surely he could control himself after today. _Surely_ he could be decent after she comforted him like this.

"I think…it'll be okay."

"I don't have a toothbrush," she said.

"I have a spare," he told her, breaking into the first genuine smile in days.

"I don't have a change of clothes, either. When's Mass?"

"Nine."

Claire groaned and sagged into him. "Then I'll have to get up _early_ to go back to my place and change."

Matt's smile widened. Claire, whether by nature or her late shift at work, _hated_ early mornings.

"I'll go with you, so you won't be alone. You could sleep on my shoulder on the train or something."

She groaned into his neck, then heaved herself upright. "You better not draw on me if I fall asleep during the service."

"I won't. But Father Lantom might call you out in his sermon."

Claire snorted, then got to her feet. She took his hand, then hoisted him up beside her. "Come on, mister. If I'm gonna do this, we're gonna eat and then hit the sack, ASAP."

That night, after they'd eaten and brushed their teeth and changed, Matt held Claire close. Holding didn't count as touching. Holding counted as loving, because Stick was wrong and Claire made him better _._ Foggy made him better. People made him _better._

"No getting fresh with me, alright?" she told him, more tease than warning. "I will definitely fall asleep if I have to wait for you to do confessional for being unchaste."

Matt laughed and kissed her neck. Just once, nothing more.

"What, you think I'm kidding? The moment you say 'bless me Father, for I have sinny sin sinned' is the moment I'm out like a light."

Matt snorted, shaking slightly as he buried his laughter in the pillows. Pleased chuckles rumbled through Claire's chest, not loud enough to even make a sound. He composed himself, focusing on the even rhythm of her pulse.

"Thank you, Claire," he whispered.

"Yeah? For what?"

"For loving me."

"Awh, loving you's the easy part," she said. She rolled over and kissed him, three quick pecks on the mouth before she settled back into the pillows. "The hard part's getting you to be quiet so I can sleep."

Matt smiled, savoring the smell of her curled up with the clean warmth of his sheets.

"Good night, Claire. I love you."

"I love you, too, Matt."


End file.
